


Aww, Dog.

by orphan_account



Category: Marvel
Genre: Bucky is a BAMF, Clint is miserable, Kidnapping, M/M, the dog is okay i promise the kidnappers didn't hurt the dog
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-13 11:57:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3380642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint has a well-known soft spot for dogs, and sometimes it gets him in trouble. Sometimes it almost kills him. Like now, when he's chained to the wall and totally dying of kidney failure in a warehouse somewhere because his kidnappers are completely incompetent shits. Like, honestly, if you're going to do it, you need to commit and at least do it well. Fuckers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aww, Dog.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah so there's [a prompt on tumblr](http://otpdisaster.tumblr.com/post/104930338090/person-a-being-held-hostage-in-a-fortress-and) that I saw yesterday and I just couldn't resist.

Clint was struggling to regulate his breathing, which wasn’t something that often happened. Hawkeye was known for steady hands and ever-even breathing under pressure.

The torture wasn’t _that_ bad, really. He’d gone through worse, all things considered. It was the rib piercing his kidney (he thinks it was his kidney – there was blood when he peed just a little bit ago) posing the biggest problem at the moment; the rest was just background noise. Budapest had been worse, but he’d also had Nat there with him, so it might have actually been better. Huh.

The head injury he’d gotten during the abduction didn’t help with the clear thinking. He was dazed and confused, and he couldn’t even laugh at himself for thinking that.

And then there was the fact that he didn’t know who had him or where he was. His hearing aids had been lost – or removed – when he had been taken (which, honestly, _was_ totally his fault. But there was a dog, and some pizza, and he really couldn’t just _leave it there,_ right?). His captors weren’t exactly tripping over themselves to communicate in a way he could understand. Clint thought that was pretty senseless, considering they were trying to get information out of him, and how were they supposed to do that if he didn’t know what it was they wanted in the first place?

He was pretty confident that he had been there for a little longer than 24 hours. Possibly as many as 48. The brain thing, again. Time warped. But someone had been kind enough to leave the bucket of water within reach after he’d been waterboarded, so he wasn’t dehydrated yet, only extremely hungry.

And exhausted. Clint had reached stupid-tired levels of fatigue. The Avengers had had a busy week and he hadn’t gotten much sleep – or, well. Any. No sleep for three days thanks to the back-to-back villainy. He’d gotten the short straw and was on the way back from picking up World-Saving-Party pizza (because no one in New York delivered to the tower anymore after that last incident with Natasha and some missing eggrolls) when he’d spotted that damn dog, felt bad enough to approach the scrawny thing, and then been taken. Ugh.

He was tired enough by now that he would have been exhibiting strange behaviors if he hadn’t been in so much fucking pain. It was also, as they had all learned the hard way, a pretty good indicator that he was about ten minutes from climbing Bucky like a tree.

Oh.

_Bucky._

Shit, fuck, and damn: **_Bucky_**.

Clint let out a pained groan. Bucky was going to kill him dead.

Clint winced as his head dropped back against the wall and he returned to focusing on taking steady breaths, one arm wrapped protectively around his abdomen as though that could somehow help. If he wanted Bucky to kill him, he had to survive this first.

The next hour passed agonizingly slowly, Clint using some of Bruce’s breathing techniques to stay calm through the pain.

The bastards that had nabbed him weren’t even respectable villains. They hadn’t bothered to check and make sure Clint didn’t have life-threatening injuries before they left him for the night (day? Fuck if he knew what time it was). Sucks to be them, he thought to himself. He’d be dead from kidney failure or a ruptured spleen or something and they wouldn’t get whatever they needed from him. At least there was that.

They had fake-yet-effectively-drowned him, cracked one of his lower ribs, and left him there with a guard, ankles chained on a short leash to the wall. If he moved too suddenly, he swore he could feel the rib digging in further. Which, really, could this hurt any more? He knew the lower ribs were bendier than the middle ones, which _should_ have kept them from breaking. Nah. Not Clint Motherfucking Barton, the unluckiest of them all.

He was too tired for this shit. Tired and missing home and missing Bucky and tired of missing Bucky.

A flash of movement caught his eye, and Clint shifted his head and watched his guards rise to their feet, weapons drawn. They looked nervous.

That was good for him, right? Nervous bad guys was good for the good guys. And he was a good guy now, he remembered with a bit of rueful amusement. SHIELD was good. Kinda. Again with the thinking thing.

One moment the guards were peering warily around the smallish warehouse (really, a warehouse? How original), and the next their knees buckled and they fell into motionless heaps where they stood.

Definitely good for him, then. Awesome.

He waited impatiently for his savior to emerge from wherever-the-fuck they’d been hiding and was startled when a masked man landed gracefully not five feet in front of him, having jumped from the rafters.

Nope, not just any masked man. Clint would recognize Bucky’s legs from a mile away. He waited silently while Bucky shucked off his remaining weaponry and peeled the mask off his face.

He was covered in blood, Clint noted absently. He couldn’t even bring himself to wrinkle his nose in distaste.

Fuuuck, he was tired.

Bucky knelt down in front of him and Clint brought his gaze to Bucky’s lips, watching as he spoke.

 _Sorry I’m late_ , he said. And then he gave Clint a once over and his face darkened as he registered Clint’s pained face. Bucky dropped a kiss onto Clint’s forehead before bringing his metal hand to the restraints and breaking them off like they were nothing more than dry chunks of Play-Doh.  

Clint let himself fall forward into Bucky, ignoring his protesting… well, everything. Everything hurt. “Missed you,” he murmured. He felt Bucky’s chest rumble with his response as gentle hands maneuvered him into a better position, taking pressure off his ribs for the first time in what felt like years. He kept talking, and Clint figured he was speaking into a comm to the team, but he was really too tired to care. He was safe, and he was going to sleep now thanks.

His eyes slipped shut and he ignored Bucky’s increasingly frantic attempts at shaking him awake. He was _sleeping_ , damn it. He pressed a kiss into the palm against his cheek and slipped into the waiting darkness.

\--

There was beeping.

There was beeping which meant he had his hearing aids back in and there was a sharp scent in his nose and oh shit he was in the hospital wasn’t he.

Well that was good since it meant he lived. And it was bad because Bucky was gonna be _pissed_.

Clint groaned at the prospect and froze when there was a chuckle from beside him.

“Morning, Clint.”

He groaned again and fought to open his eyes. He succeeded and blinked hazily up at the ceiling. “Hoozat?” he asked incoherently.

“Clint, turn your head to your left.”

Which way was left? Oh, right. He turned. “Cap.”

“Yeah buddy, it’s me. Bucky went for some coffee and should be back in just a minute. You need anything?”

His throat was scratchy. “Water.”

Steve stood and reached for the glass at his bedside, bringing the straw to Clint’s lips without making him feel useless for not being able to move his arms. Wait. He didn’t remember breaking his arms. What the fuck kinda drugs was he on?

And because Steve is good like that, he said, "You’re on some pretty strong stuff, so don’t be surprised if you can’t move your limbs much for the next hour or so. You had emergency surgery to repair the damage to your kidney and they had to put you under three different times because you kept waking up and asking for Bucky. During the surgery. Scared the shit outta some of the interns, bud, but you’re going to be just fine.”

Clint smiled a little just as the door to his room was thrown open. Wide-eyed, Clint turned to see a furious Bucky Barnes standing in the doorway, clenching two coffees in his hands.

“Hi,” he offered up sheepishly.

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “A _dog_ , Clinton?”

“In my defense,” he offered, “it was a very pretty dog.”

“If I weren’t so relieved you’re alive right now, I’d kill you myself,” Bucky muttered darkly, passing off one of his mugs to Steve before setting the other one next to Clint’s water and clambering up onto the hospital bed. He pressed his face into Clint’s neck and sighed. “I love you.”

Clint knew he was going to get a proper dressing down once he was doing better, but for now he was definitely going to enjoy this affectionate Bucky. “Love you too.”

And then a metal fist came up and landed hard on his thigh. His muscle cramped immediately and he cried out in surprise (and maybe a little bit of pain, not that he’d ever admit it). “The fuck?!”

Bucky grumbled something unintelligible into his neck.

“What?”

Bucky lifted his head, eyes flashing dangerously. “Thor took the dog home.”

Clint’s eyes dropped closed in a brief moment of horror. “Aww, Tony’s gonna kill me.”

“Yep,” Bucky replied cheerfully before returning to his previous nuzzling.

Clint relaxed back into the bed and let the pull of the medication draw him back into sleep. He’d deal with the damn dog later.

 


End file.
